


Zabelii

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Age Difference, Hand Jobs, M/M, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:57:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5078692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Celebrimbor draws Celegorm aside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zabelii

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It isn’t unusual for Celebrimbor to watch Celegorm during meals, where they often sit amongst commoners. Celegorm and Curufin remain mostly among themselves and appear communally only to uphold appearances and keep, for now, the peace. But Celebrimbor fits better in Nargothrond than his father and uncle ever will, and his tenuous connection with them is held more in longing glances.

It’s less usual for Celebrimbor to seek Celegorm out after. Their quarters are near one another, though Curufin’s lies between, and they don’t make it that far before Celegorm finds Celebrimbor attached to his sleeve. With a gentle tug and a nod down a side corridor, Celebrimbor asks, “May I speak with you?” The hush of his voice tells Celegorm it must be important, so he nods and sweeps an arm around his nephew’s trim waist, drawing him aside. Celegorm only means to guide him to the end of the hall, already out of the way and cast mostly in shadows, but Celebrimbor tugs them further, between two pillars carved out of the wall: a decorative indent that creates some semblance of privacy. Celebrimbor cowers in it, Celegorm following to shield him from the outer halls. 

He doesn’t explain himself right away. He’s still very, very young: he could only just be considered an adult—by Eldar standards, anyway: Edain would think him ancient and Sindar fairly matured. To Celegorm, he seems small and shy: so strange for Curufin’s son. He isn’t yet hardened like his father, and he’s never shown the cunning, shrewd intelligence that Curufin always held. Finally, after running his pink tongue across his lips, Celebrimbor looks to Celegorm and blurts, “Did you really mean what you said at the feast? About me being excellent at the forge and having come fully into my own with my craft?”

Lifting an eyebrow, Celegorm answers, “Of course.” He says less what he doesn’t mean than Curufin, and what lies he does tell would never be to another of Fëanor’s line. Naturally, he has pride for Celebrimbor, but in that particular compliment his praise is hardly exaggerated: Celebrimbor is a prodigy of talent. At the light in Celebrimbor’s eyes, Celegorm asks, “You know that you are good, do you not?”

Celebrimbor nods, and his high cheeks colour around the edges. “Yes, but you see me as an adult, then?” The way he looks up and the tone of his voice puts stress on _Celegorm_ , that he, in particular, acknowledges Celebrimbor’s adulthood.

Still confused, Celegorm clarifies, “You are old enough, yes. Though of course you are still very young in the life of an elf.”

“But I...” Pausing, Celebrimbor licks his lips again. He looks down, away, and his dark hair slithers across his cheek for it, long and silken-straight. He may grow very tall and broad someday, with sharp angles and the fierceness of his line, but for now his beauty’s still soft and tempered. Still averting his eyes beneath his lashes, he admits, “I am... old enough for certain... feelings.” Then he glances up, as though to see if Celegorm’s understood.

A sly smile makes its way across Celegorm’s lips. This, indeed, explains his nephew’s want for privacy, and the nervousness and the growing blush. And it’s one of the few interesting things to cross Celegorm’s plate in a while, when normally all he has to think of is the rising of Morgoth and the fall of his own stronghold. He doesn’t so much ask as say, intrigued, “You have a crush on someone.” Then, genuinely curious, “Who?” There are few in these halls worthy of a grandchild of Fëanor, but Celebrimbor is young enough to enjoy a few dalliances before they find him someone better. 

Still watching Celegorm carefully, Celebrimbor mumbles, “Someone very beautiful. Very fair, in the handsomeness of their face, the unusual lightness to their hair, and in their just countenance. Someone kind to me, protective and fiercely loyal.”

“Interesting,” Celegorm muses, now confused again. “But that sounds like someone of our line, and unfortunately, it seems no one here is truly that.”

Celebrimbor does a little shrug of his still-round shoulders and parts his lips, but he can’t seem to make words come out of them again. Instead, he takes his bottom lip in his teeth, working it cutely, and he brings one hand up to his face, looking away. Celegorm waits patiently, until Celebrimbor sighs and springs to action. 

He lifts up on his toes and plunges forward, his face smashing into Celegorm’s. He tries to bring his lips to Celegorm’s, but he doesn’t tilt his face and it brings their noses together, ricocheting a spark of pain up Celegorm’s skull and making Celebrimbor wince and jerk back. He holds both hands over his nose, his eyes wide with overwhelming embarrassment and blearing innocence. Celegorm remains where he is, dumbfounded. For a fleeting second, he almost thinks this must be an act: Curufin would play naïve for this, if he thought it would aide his seduction, but Celebrimbor has never turned his cleverness into such trickery. Finally, Celegorm concludes aloud, “It is me.”

“I am sorry,” Celebrimbor murmurs. He lowers his hands, then dares to press one closer, reaching for the golden locks that hang over Celegorm’s shoulder, woven together in a thick braid. They’re still standing incredibly close, tucked away as they are, and Celegorm doesn’t step back. He lets Celebrimbor thread tentative fingers into his hair. Looking up to him, Celebrimbor says, hoarse now with obvious want, “I know it is wrong. But I... I have never met anyone so _handsome_ , or so brave. You are as close to me as my own father, and yet you are kinder to me, and I.... Is it not true that Fëanor’s line prefer their own? I have heard it. I could...” He pauses, closes his eyes and takes in a shuddering breath, then reopens them to look up at Celegorm with a determined fire and promise, “I can be good to you, even if you do not want me.” Blushing deeper, he hurriedly adds, “You could pretend that I were someone else! I am skilled—you have said so yourself—I believe I could learn well and pleasure you how you like.”

In Celebrimbor’s next pause, Celegorm numbly repeats, “You would pleasure me?” His body stirs at the mere prospect—though they deny it aloud, Celebrimbor’s heard the truth. He thought Celebrimbor too close and too young, but Celebrimbor nods eagerly. Celegorm has to force himself to say, “You should not offer that yet.”

If possible, Celebrimbor turns even redder. Very slowly, he suggests, “There are... other things... if you wished to wait, I... I would wait for you, and I could... I could still give you my hands, and take you in my... my mouth...” 

It takes a good deal of effort for Celegorm to show no reaction to this. He can feel himself growing hot beneath his robes. He’s always known himself to have some twisted tendencies, and he shamefully finds Celebrimbor’s clear innocence adding to the charm. The thought of slipping first into Celebrimbor’s unused mouth is so wondrously debauched, and he knows that Celebrimbor would be an eager pupil. Celebrimbor insists, leaning forward to splay his delicate fingers along Celegorm’s chest, “I would learn what to do. You could teach me...”

Celegorm does nothing. He does less as Celebrimbor licks his lips and tilts his face, leaning in, this time, at a better angle. He’s trembling when his lips brush over Celegorm’s closed ones. Celegorm can still feel how _soft_ Celebrimbor’s are, the subtle curve and the slight moisture. Celebrimbor begs, “ _Please_ ,” against him, clutching now to his shoulders, and Celegorm tries vainly not to dwell on the ripe bundle of temptation so wantonly pleading in his arms. 

He isn’t strong enough. Celebrimbor gives him more credit than he deserves. He thrusts a hand to Celebrimbor’s cheek, cupping Celebrimbor fiercely and holding him in place, so that Celegorm can kiss him properly. At first it’s closed-mouthed, but the second Celegorm’s tongue has swiped along Celebrimbor’s lips, Celebrimbor opens right up and _moans_ at his entrance. Celegorm sweeps into his warm mouth with ease, body surging forward. Celegorm pins his little nephew hard against the wall. His fingers slide back into Celebrimbor’s hair, his other hand running down to feel Celebrimbor’s lithe waist, and Celebrimbor’s arms wrap tightly around his shoulders, Celebrimbor whimpering happily into his mouth. 

Every time Celegorm means to pull away, something will suck him back—a pleading noise, a trembling touch, the taste of Celebrimbor’s throat. He’s tempted into _ravaging_ his nephew’s sweet mouth, until their bodies are fully rolling together, and he can feel the hardness at Celebrimbor’s crotch pressing into him. His hand slips to _feel_ it, then cup it, and Celebrimbor comes to pieces in his arms, squealing lewdly against him and shivering helplessly. Celegorm palms it, marveling at the size he feels and the sheer stiffness—how much Celebrimbor clearly _wants him_.

He chases Celebrimbor’s tongue with his own the whole time, and Celebrimbor experiments and learns. At first he’s only an open vassal for Celegorm’s pleasure, surrendering himself completely, but then he follows Celegorm’s tongue, sucks on it in return when his own is treated, and laps at Celegorm’s between their mouths. He’s _delicious._

He’s _easy_. He gives himself away so quickly, woefully exposed and holding nothing back. His hips buck into Celegorm’s hand with every chance, though he’s pinned too tightly in place to do much. His arms he only uses to hold on, while Celegorm explores Celebrimbor’s body, tugging most at his hair, which always makes Celebrimbor gasp and whine in a pathetic sort of arousal. It makes Celegorm want to be _rough_ with him, drag him back by his hair to their quarters, maybe even Curufin’s just to cement their sin, and then he could defile his brother’s precious child so thoroughly that Celebrimbor could never bear to go to any other. 

Instead, Celegorm constrains himself to kisses and kneading the shape of Celebrimbor’s veiled cock, until Celebrimbor jerks wildly and _screams_ into Celegorm’s mouth. Celegorm eats away all the cries. He can feel Celebrimbor twitching in his palm and the fabric of the robes growing wet for it. Celebrimbor clutches to him throughout it, before finally falling limp and satiated, his mouth going slack under the assault of Celegorm’s tongue again. 

When Celegorm pulls back, Celebrimbor is panting and trembling. He looks embarrassed, likely for finishing so quickly and with so little, but to Celegorm, it merely proves his desire. Celegorm comments idly, “You may be lucky that I have never been as fair and good as others seem to think me.” Celebrimbor dons a shaken smile.

“You will come back with me to my quarters then?” he asks hopefully. It forces Celegorm to grin in return. He hasn’t had such a delightful sight in far too long. He uses a fistful of Celebrimbor’s hair to tilt his head down, so that Celegorm can kiss his forehead.

“Another night,” Celegorm promises. “For now, we should go slowly.”

Celebrimbor moves out of his hand, trying to kiss him again, but Celegorm turns away. Settling back in nervous disappointment, Celebrimbor asks, “How slow?”

Celegorm ponders it for a moment. Then he decides, “Build an adjustable metal ring at your next opportunity. That should help us start.”

Obediently, Celebrimbor nods. “Of course. For the size of which finger?” Celegorm nearly laughs. 

Instead, he leans forward over Celebrimbor’s shoulder. He brushes a few strands of hair away and whispers in his beloved nephew’s ear, “For the size of your pretty cock.” Then he withdraws to kiss Celebrimbor’s temple, while Celebrimbor’s face turns red again. 

When Celegorm steps away to leave, Celebrimbor is clearly too spent to follow. It’s for the best; if Celegorm takes him now, the newness will be too much for restraint, and Celebrimbor will leave his quarters limping in the morning, if he ever leaves. So Celegorm walks off on his own, calling sweetly, “I will see my favourite nephew later.”


End file.
